


Watching Frank

by PoesAd_LiB



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Admiration, Angst, Creepy, Fascination, Frerard, M/M, Unrequited Love, gerard way is a peeping tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2108316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoesAd_LiB/pseuds/PoesAd_LiB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not perverse, it goes a bit deeper than that. However it might not seem that way,</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching Frank

**Author's Note:**

> Based on nick cave and the bad seeds watching alice. Nick Cave is like one of my favorite lyricist.

Morning sunlight kisses his window. The warm, glimmering orange softly laps at the pane, gradually seeping into his room. His walls are a faint shade of blue, resembling the taint of the vast sky, the taste of faux freedom lingers through the paint, palpable. The color doesn't complement the boy. The sun's faint flame dyes his walls, emitting a mellow glow of orange. It blurs the jagged corners where his walls intersect, and dims the ugly hue of blue. The color it produces echoes the boy.  
  
A man watches from across the room, across the street, behind a window.  
  
It's eight a.m, on a June morning. The boy wakes up.  
  
The man reaches for his binoculars.  
  
He watches as the boy walks across the room, yawning into his hand. His mouth stretched open on the planes of his palm, his left hand decorated with calluses and hangnails. His jaw line protrudes, a sharp, firm angle reigning amongst the delicate surface of his face. He retrieves his hand, and stretches, arms flexing towards the ceiling. His fists curl and uncurl sharing the same dance with the contracting of his biceps. The smooth prominent muscles of his body, tone and stretch his juvenile skin taut over his bones. The image, is so vivid, so detailed, it is as if the man can almost touch it.  
  
The boy, Frank, cards his long tanned fingers through the nape of his neck, scratching softly at his scalp. His chestnut hair musses against the movement, falling over his face in gentle strands of tangles. He walks over to his mirror and starts to comb his hair. He yawns again, still tired, and rolls his head towards his chest, the muscles on his shoulders start to unknot as the haze of sleep begins fade.  
  
The soft glow of a June morning makes his tan skin appear golden.  
  
He is naked.  
  
He is only seventeen.  
  
  
The man has watched him, ever since he became his nine year old neighbor. He has been a witness to his growth ever since he moved in. On his fifteenth birthday, he bought the binoculars to note down every small detail of his growing body.  
  
The process has been beautiful.  
  
He moves his binoculars down inch by inch, eyes grazing admiringly over the boys smooth, ivory skin. Warm light gleams on his belly, skin reflecting off the brightness, abdominal muscles almost imperceptible against the flatness of his stomach. They are newly acquired muscles. His ever changing body, is a variable confined in all its beauty.  
  
The man can discern the different shades of the boy's skin pertaining to the seasons.  
  
In spring his skin a diluted golden brown, soft like the light, like the breeze of a tranquil day.  
On summer his skin becomes a tanned olive, basked in the hot sun.  
In fall, Frank's skin is brushed with a light shade of sand.  
During winter his skin is transformed into lightest shade of eggshells.  
  
The man's favorite hue is in the spring.  
  
Frank puts on the navy blue trousers of his uniform. Dark blue covering him, first from his ankles, to his finely toned legs, to his knees, then to his soft thighs, and finally, sadly, to his small, angular hips.  
  
He moves towards his dresser taking out a crisp, white dress shirt.  
  
The man wonders if Frank ever noticed that he's had an audience over the past years.  
  
It's almost sad to know that he hasn't.  
  
He puts on his dress shirt, precise fingers weaving over the buttons, slowly pressing his shirt closed. He is in no hurry. He buttons up the cuffs, the man positions his binoculars towards his wrists. Frank reaches over the counter of his dresser, and clutches his favorite cuff links in his palms. The man fondly smiles as the boy clasps them over the cloth covering his wrists. They are silver swallows sparkling over the cloth, like elegant creatures.  
  
The man sighs against his window, fogging up the glass from where he is hidden from view. The sun always hits north, looming past over his house and shining all it's attention to Frank's room.  
  
  
  
The nearby church bells chime.  
  
Frank puts on his tie, preparing to leave for school.  
  
The man sighs again, disappointment pooling at the core in his chest.  
  
Reaching down to the floor, Frank picks up his black shoes immaculate to the very soles. He slides them on his small feet. They look constricting.  
  
The boy remains still for a while, looking at his reflection in the mirror. Chest heaving with tension.  
  
Hair perfectly combed, clothes crisp and clean, and shoes polished. He looks like a prisoner in his bland room, with his neat attire.  
  
It's almost cruel.  
  
Then, he picks up his backpack from his chair, and heads out the door.  
  
His shadow is the last thing imprinted against the orange glow as he closes the door to his room.  
  
  
  
Gerard sighs, puts down his binoculars and gets prepared to go to work.  
  
It's so depressing.


End file.
